James T. Boulton

handsomely on her, as she stood with uplifted arm, turning her
face to her daughter.

"You've got a flower in your apron!" said the child, in a
little rapture at this unusual event.

"Goodness me!" exclaimed the woman, relieved, and a
little annoyed. "One would think the house was afire." She
replaced the glass and waited a moment before turning up the
wick. A pale shadow seemed to be floating weirdly on the floor.

"Let me smell!" said the child, still rapturously, coming
forward and putting her face to her mother's waist.

"Go along, silly!" said the mother, turning up the lamp.
The light seemed to reveal all the suspense and suppressed
wrath that held the little room. The woman felt it almost
unbearable. Annie was still bending at her waist. Irritably,
the mother took the flowers from out of her apron band.

"Oh mother--don't take them out!" cried Annie, catching
her hand, and trying to replace the flowers.

"Such nonsense!" said the mother, turning away. The
child put the pale chrysanthemums to her lips, with exaggerated
tenderness, murmuring:

"Don't they smell beautiful!"

Her mother gave a short laugh.

"Hateful!" she said. "I hate them. It was chrysanthe-
mums when I married him, and chrysanthemums when you
were born, and the first time they ever brought him home
drunk he'd got brown chrysanthemums in his coat. When I
smell them I could always think of that, me dragging at him
to get his coat off ---- "

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